The Fry-nal Problem
by BasilH
Summary: A completely ridiculous little fic that stemmed from a discussion I had (too early in the morning when everyone involved was only half-awake) on the merits of different fast food chains. Somehow it ended up being about Sherlock (of course). A member of my family and I are writing this one together, alternating chapters. AU where everyone works in a fast food restaurant.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: Hi! Basil here. Welcome to my story (I write the odd-numbered chapters). I hope you enjoy reading it. It is totally ridiculous, as stated in the description, completely fictional, and solely for entertainment purposes. Also, I have never worked at any of the restaurants I mention in the story. Thus, this story is probably riddled with inaccuracy and plot holes; please bear with me. Having said that, I do appreciate any and all feedback, be it constructive or positive. Happy fanfic-ing!

Mr. Sherlock Holmes sat in his office in a tiny back room in the Baker Street McDonald's franchise and did what he did best: thought. At that particular moment, he was thinking about how fantastic his life was. He had recently been promoted from fry cook to manager, and that alone would have been enough cause for celebration in his view. But he hadn't moved up the ranks just anywhere; this was the Baker Street McDonald's, widely regarded throughout the surrounding community as the finest fast food establishment within a fifteen-mile radius. Logically, his thoughts next turned to the competition. There was really only one business that was even in the same category as the McDonald's, and that was the Dunkin' Donuts down the street. Some claimed that the gas station in between the two stores drew away some business due to its small convenience mart, but Sherlock knew that was only frequented by plebeians. He scoffed at just the thought of them. They could keep their stale chips and beer six packs; McDonald's was where the quality was.

Dunkin' Donuts wasn't so easy to write off. For example, while it was true that the McDonald's Egg McMuffin breakfast sandwich was better tasting than the Dunkin' Donuts Ham Egg and Cheese, the Ham Egg and Cheese was sold during the store's entire operating hours, as opposed to a window of time in the morning. Not only did this draw customers looking for a breakfast sandwich outside of the traditional breakfast time period, but during the breakfast time period as well, as people appreciated consistency. A customer wasn't likely to buy the same sandwich from one restaurant at one period of the day and from another restaurant at another period of the day; they were most likely to stick with the restaurant that offered it whenever they would want it. Sherlock banged his fist on the desk in frustration and outrage. Though the timing of the McDonald's breakfast menu was not within his control (at the moment, at least), Sherlock vowed to do everything within his power to drive Dunkin' Donuts out of business entirely. Not just the Baker Street franchise, but the entire company.

John Watson stood behind the cash register at the Baker Street Dunkin' Donuts branch and stared out at the empty restaurant. Prospects were bleak; there had only been one customer all day, and that had been Casper's girlfriend. She purchased one 99 cent donut and conversed with Casper for an hour, while John casually wiped at his ears every so often to make sure they weren't actually bleeding from listening to such drivel. John had looked around after the first 45 minutes passed to see if Mike Stamford, his friend, was having the same reaction as him, before remembering that Mike had been laid off the previous week. Now the only employees were John and Casper. And even they might not have jobs for much longer.

Business was not doing well for this particular Dunkin' Donuts. John knew this was largely due to the presence of a McDonald's less than a block away. While John tried to stay loyal to the Dunkin' Donuts brand, as he chewed his rubbery Egg White Flatbread he sometimes yearned for a different sandwich flavor… the Big Mac. He wondered absently why he hadn't been fired yet; certainly Stamford hadn't ever craved anything with beef in it, at least as far as he knew. The fact that he had lasted as long as Casper surprised him. Casper was a slight adolescent that behaved disturbingly like an eight-year-old in the peak of his Matchbox car collecting phase; Casper being the young child in the simile and the Dunkin' Donuts job the toy cars. Once, making friendly conversation, John had asked Casper his age. Casper responded, without missing a beat, "Old enough to know my true passions in this life: my girlfriend, the U. S. of A., and the glorious corporation of Dunkin' Donuts."

John was jolted from his depressed daydreams by a shrill whistling. He was alarmed for a moment, worrying that something was wrong with the coffee machine again, before he realized it was simply Casper being Casper. He ground his teeth and glanced at his watch for the umpteenth time, asking himself how he had gotten to this point. He remembered the days when he was pre-med… before it had all changed course so suddenly.

The telephone rang, and John limped over to answer it. John's limp was psychosomatic, he knew, because he had never endured any physical trauma. It had been triggered when Dunkin' Donuts stopped carrying his favorite donut, the Jam-tastic Cake-jelly. Being informed that it had been a seasonal item did nothing to assuage his suffering. "Since when is there a season for jam?" he bemoaned. In his mind, jam was a year-round necessity.

He picked up the receiver and sighed heavily. "Hello?" he asked.

"John Watson!" cried the person on the other end. "John Watson!"

It sounded kind of like Mike, but he couldn't tell, because the person sounded like they were having a manic episode. The person was obviously hyperventilating. "Is everything alright, Mike?" John asked.

"Alright? Ha!" cried Mike. "Johnny boy, I'm better then alright! I'm smashing!"

"Since when do you call me Johnny boy?" asked John. "That feels uncomfortable to me."

"I have…" started Mike, and then something crashed through the glass door to the store with great force, causing the promotional image of a Coolatta to slide off it. It was Mike, talking on his cell phone with one hand and carrying something in his other. "A BIG MAC!" screamed Mike, and shoved the hamburger he was carrying into his mouth with a dramatic flourish.

An awkward moment passed while Mike chewed viciously. John stood behind the counter, still holding onto the phone, exchanging glances with Casper, who for once seemed just as baffled as him. Finally, Mike could speak again. "John, you have to get one of these sandwiches," he said. "It will change your life."

John gasped. For him, a Dunkin' Donuts employee, to purchase food at the McDonald's – it was blasphemy! But he had always yearned for more than the flat, bland sandwiches the Donut chain offered…

AN: Well, that's chapter one for ya. Please review and let me know how I'm doing (first time writing humor, can't you tell?) Thanks, lovely people. See you in chapter 3.


	2. Chapter 2

A dark shock of hair rose from behind the linoleum counter, beady eyes peering through thick smudged lenses and out through a gap between the canister of Slim Jims and the plastic carousel displaying a raft of dated and dusty sunglasses. The store was a shithole, and the only thing more dismal than its shoddy appearance was the shoddy state of its finances.

Moriarty's filling station had been family-owned for three generations. In the glory days - like the 1977 Arab oil embargo - the Moriarty family made more in a week than they would spend in a month! When James Moriarty had assumed the reins from his father in the late 1990s after a spell at Fresno Business Academy, he had grand designs for expansion. Within a mere 24 months he had designed, financed and constructed a gleaming mini-mart with shelves laden with Hostess confections, fried and salted meats, and all manner of starchy chips. Tobacco, cold pop, and packaged muffins rounded out the offerings.

Reflecting Moriarty's (also known then as MJ - or Junior) cold brilliance, profits doubled. Gasoline sales increased as customers thronged to the convenience mart for snacks and refreshments. Sales were brisk. But even Moriarty could not have anticipated the financial troubles ahead.

Moriarty's benefitted from zoning laws that grandfathered in his family's filling station and -better yet - the mini-mart, in what was otherwise a residential neighborhood for blocks in either direction. If one needed gas, Twinkies, or both there was only one convenient location to acquire such goods. Junior, having grown up in an environment where his family business benefitted from this advantageous status quo, underestimated the shrewdness of the man who now bore the focus of Junior's unnatural hatred - Sherlock Holmes.

Holmes had worked his way up from fry chef at the city center McDonalds. He had, while preparing dozens of fresh batches of fries per day, did what he did best. He thought. He studied maps of the city in his photographic memory (cut to weird flashing London tube map in Holmes' mind), and was intrigued to see only one neighborhood devoid of fast food (or any) dining establishments, save an old filling station with a mini-mart. Holmes, studying once again the photographic images in his mind, then flipped pages of a city zoning regulations book he had once mistakenly read during a two-minute break when a customer left it. He had intended to read the Times, but by the time he realized that he had picked up other reading materials he was finished, and the volume had been absorbed into his powerful mind. While reviewing these mind-images, Holmes made a startling discovery. There was a simple process for re-zoning residential real estate to commercial space if the block being re-zoned had at least one filling station AND ONE ESTABLISHMENT THAT SERVED BEVERAGES. Thus, the entire block on which Moriarty's filling station stood was now suitable for building fast food or other commercial businesses. Holmes quickly sought investors to open a gleaming McDonald's...

The impact on Moriarty's was immediate and severe. Business was crap.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: Hey! Basil again. If you're still reading, thanks for sticking with this fic. Without further ado... Chapter 3!

Oblivious to all of the nefarious plotting and mutual hatred in the general vicinity, John Watson was finishing up his shift at Dunkin' Donuts. Externally, he seemed calm enough, but inside, his thoughts churned like butter in one of those things that churns butter (and is possibly called a butter churn). The scene with Mike had ended uncertainly earlier, and now John had a decision to make.

After Mike implored John to go purchase a Big Mac at John's employers' biggest rival restaurant, he really had only one option in terms of his immediate course of action. Due to the presence of Casper, he had to act like it not only wouldn't happen, but that the idea personally offended him. He gasped and staggered backward, his face a twisted mask of horror, as though physically pushed backward by the shock of Mike's suggestion, which (he tried to convey nonverbally) had been barely within the realm of his conceptualization. Then he placed a hand over his heart and cried, "Mike, how could you say such a thing to me?" At which point he jerked his head slightly in the direction of Casper, hoping to communicate: "We can't speak about this here."

Luckily, Mike seemed to get the hint. He said, with exaggerated enunciation, "Oh, I understand, John. You will never eat a hamburger, ever. It was stupid of me to suggest it to you." Then he turned around and left. The store was abruptly silent. John placed the phone back on the wall. The only sign of Mike's bizarre, theatrical entrance just moments ago was the giant promotional poster that had fallen off the door, now glaringly bright and out-of-place in the middle of the floor. John and Casper exchanged a look, before John said, "I'll put it back up."

As John was affixing the poster in its original location, his phone chirped in his pocket. He stole a glance at the screen. It was a text from Mike that read, "Seriously, though."

John had spent the rest of the day going back and forth about whether or not to heed Mike's advice. Now, he had to decide. He had to do something. Finally, he just decided to YOLO it, as his sister Harry would say. How could he live with himself if he passed up this chance for adventure? Besides, something told him that this outing to get a hamburger could have consequences that would be life changing. And John was so bored with his life, almost any change would be welcome.

He knew he couldn't just waltz in there, though; he wasn't stupid. He had to wear a disguise. So he stopped at Harry's house on the drive home from work. She greeted him with an enthusiastic hug, and he responded by patting her on the back a few times while he tried to expand his lungs enough to breathe in her grip. Finally, she let go of him and stepped back. "How are you, John?" she asked, smiling warmly. He met her eyes with a completely serious expression. "I'm on a mission," he replied. "I need a disguise."

His sister laughed. "What kind of mission?"

"I could tell you," said John, "but then I might have to kill you."

"Okay, then," she replied. "I still can't tell if you're actually being serious or if you're joking, but I expect you won't be making it any easier for me to figure it out. So I'm just going to go with whatever this is. You could borrow a hoodie? Virtually anything would work as a disguise for you so long as it isn't a knitted sweater. You have a weird thing about sweaters."

"I do not!" John protested, but Harry just smiled that infuriating, unfaze-able smile at him. He took the clothes she offered, thanked her and went on his way.

Sitting in his car in the McDonald's parking lot, John felt ridiculous in the hoodie and yearned for an actual sweater. But he pushed the hood up on his head bravely, squared his shoulders, and marched into the restaurant. As soon as he pushed through the door, he was met with the mouthwatering smell of all things greasy and fried. It was somewhat overwhelming. He wished his parents had occasionally bought fast food for him and his sister growing up simply so that he would be more familiar with it. But they had been health food hippies, bless their hearts, and so now he was facing one of the most intense moments of his life all because he had never before had a hamburger.

After waiting in line, he approached the young woman at the cash register. She was smiling brightly and struck John as pretty, with light brown hair braided off to the side of her face: not the kind of person he expected to be working at this hated place. Her name badge read: "Molly Hooper."

"Hi, may I take your order?" she asked.

"Em, yes," said John, clearing his throat. Here it was. There was no going back after this. "May I order a Big Mac, please? And a medium-sized soda," he added as an afterthought.

"Big Mac!" Molly turned around and yelled behind her, before turning back to John and handing him his soda cup. "Would that be all?" she asked politely.

It was at that moment that someone from within the depths of the kitchen yelled back at Molly, "We don't have any left!"

Molly turned around again and addressed the voice. "What?"

A young man emerged from the kitchen and walked up to her. "We ran out of Big Macs," he said.

Molly raised her eyebrows at him, clearly surprised, before turning back to John. She laughed slightly. "I'm not sure if this has ever happened before, but it seems as though we've run out of Big Macs. Can I get you something else instead?"

"What?" asked John, stunned. How, after all this, could he walk out of this place without one of these sandwiches?

Molly hesitated, then began again, "I'm not sure if this has ever happened before, but –"

"No, I heard you the first time, I'm sorry," said John. "It's just taken me a moment to process it. How is this possible?"

"We must have run out of patties, or buns, or special sauce, or another ingredient," explained Molly.

There was a pause.

"I really want a Big Mac," said John.

Molly glanced at the man from the kitchen nervously. "Would you like to speak to the manager?" she asked.

"Okay," said John.

The man rushed off, and soon enough a different man returned. He struck John as rather overdressed for their profession, as he was wearing a fine tailored shirt and a jacket. Didn't he have some kind of uniform? "I am Sherlock Holmes, the manager," he announced upon arrival.

"Yes, alright," said John. "I really would like a Big Mac today. Is there anything you could do about that?"

Sherlock turned to Molly. "Is there a problem with his request?"

"Well, Jones says we're out," she replied. "We just don't have any more."

Sherlock looked at John and narrowed his eyes. "Something tells me there's a reason you want this sandwich so much, besides the body's typical hunger/satiety cycle," he said. "You're wearing a hoodie that is zipped all the way up, which goes directly against current fashion trends. Either you are a hipster, which is unlikely because nothing else about your appearance or mannerisms matches that profile, or you aren't accustomed to wearing hoodies. So: why are you wearing it, then? Perhaps to hide the shirt underneath, which happens to be a very distinctive shirt. I can only see the bottom but I would recognize that fabric and stitching combination anywhere. You are a Dunkin' Donuts employee. You have never had a hamburger before, but your friend and former coworker has encouraged you to try one. Now you're here, secretly, to do just that. Oh. Secretly. I guess I've ruined that."

John blinked, dumbfounded. Finally he said, "That was amazing."

Sherlock looked surprised. "That's not what people normally say."

"What do they normally say?" asked John.

"Give me my fucking hamburger," replied Sherlock. At this John and Molly both laughed.

"And you got all that from the hoodie?" asked John.

"Yes, and also your friend Mike came in earlier today and made quite a stir when he tried the food. He mentioned he would tell you to come around later, as well. You're John Watson, correct?"

"Oh," said John. "Yeah. Too bad there's no more Big Macs, then," he said sadly.

"Listen," said Sherlock. "Why don't you come in tomorrow? You can have a hamburger then, free of charge."

"Well, I guess my secret is out of the bag, so it won't matter if I come in again," said John. He was legitimately worried about his job at this point. There were at least fifteen other customers that must have heard Sherlock's remarks, and news travelled fast in this town. As if reading his mind, Sherlock smirked, "I wouldn't waste time worrying about your employment status. Something tells me your job won't be around much longer regardless of what you do."

John realized the truth of that statement with a sensation of gut certainty – he just knew. Surprisingly, despite his stress at his initial "betrayal," the thought of no longer working at Dunkin' actually didn't bother him that much. Unlike Casper, it wasn't his life's passion.

"Alright," said John, "I guess I'll be back. Thanks." And he addressed Molly, "Thanks especially; I know things got a little weird there."

"It's quite all right," she assured him. "Your friend was weirder."

John cringed. "I can only imagine," he said. "I promise he's not normally like that."

"See you tomorrow, then, John," said Sherlock.

"Bye," said John, and drove back to Harry's house. He could return her hoodie. Although they didn't always get along, she would probably have ice cream he could eat for dinner.

AN: And Chapter 3 is over! Sherlock and John have finally met! Stay tuned for more hamburger-related hijinks. And please review! Thanks for reading. :)/p


	4. Chapter 4

Author's note: Hey! B here. It's been a while since we've updated, so I was bugging D to write the next chapter already. He emailed me this in response. I'll refrain from commenting on it right now and just let you read.

Meanwhile, Moriarty had bumped his head. Again. The shelf that was too high to properly display the large, dusty cardboard "summer of Fritos" beach-themed advertisement that sat upon it, but too low to allow a grown man to pass under, had again inflicted pain on it most frequent victim. Moriarty unleashed a horrific scream from the depths of his lungs in pain, frustration and rage - "EEeeeeeeeieieieieeah!". Tears streamed down his face. He fell to his back, face red, now in a full-fledged tantrum. He shouted obscenities while pounding his fists and feet on the floor. Suddenly, a sharp blow to his abdomen knocked the air out of Moriarty and brought him back to his senses. He glanced to his side as the "summer of Fritos" diorama bounced to Moriarty's left and lodged itself partially under a white cabinet with a brown Formica top. A thousand specks of dust shimmered in the afternoon air. Moriarty's pounding had brought the Fritos ad down on his chest. Moriarty sat up, sobbing quietly to himself.

AN: ? ...Okay, then. Moving on. Thanks for reading and please review - the usual! :D


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Sorry for the hiatus. Hope you enjoy the latest chapter regardless!**

"Well, men," said the bland-looking man from Corporate that John had never before seen in his life, "It seems as though this branch of Dunkin' Donuts is closing." He paused dramatically, before continuing, "For good. Kaput. No more. We will not be opening up tomorrow. Or ever again."

It was all John could do to refrain from rolling his eyes. "I never saw it coming," he said drily. Then he glanced over at Casper to see how he was taking the news. He did not seem to be doing well. His mouth hung open, but he wasn't making any sounds save for a slight shallow rasping noise that must have been breathing. His eyes appeared glazed with a film of tears.

"That's really all I have to say," said the Corporate man. "I've served my purpose to further the plot, so I'll be leaving now." He exited briskly the way he came, through the front glass door of the Dunkin' Donuts. John was left alone with Casper.

He reached a hand out and patted the kid on the back awkwardly. "It's okay," he tried to reassure him, "Was it really that important? It wasn't, I don't think. We can move on to bigger and better things!"

John knew it was the wrong thing to say when he was met with a twisted grimace he had never before seen grace Casper's features. "NOT YOU, TOO!" he screamed, before pushing John's arm away roughly and running full tilt through the door. Luckily, the door opened out, or Casper would have been flat on his back, probably concussed.

Recovering quickly from this slightly sad turn of events, John crossed the floor over to the glass entrance, pushed aside the obnoxious promotional ad there, and peered out at Casper's swiftly diminishing form. He seemed to be running towards the filling station…

* * *

Jim Moriarty had recovered from bumping his head in the mini-mart and the subsequent temper meltdown that had ensued, and was now seated placidly behind the counter, daydreaming about overthrowing Sherlock Holmes' regime on Baker Street. How he hated Holmes, that soul-less bastard. He imagined the health department shutting down Holmes' restaurant due to an anonymous tip of a minor code infraction (his tip, of course). He imagined gloating from the seat of a bulldozer as he smashed into the walls of the building and leveled it to the ground. He smiled a small smile and blew bubbles with his spit. Life was peaceful.

At that moment, a skinny, gangly adolescent charged into the mini-mart, sobbing forcefully. Moriarty pushed the bathroom key over the counter towards the boy, but he ignored it, crying even harder. Finally he asked tentatively, "What's wrong with you?"

The boy took several gasping breaths. "I lost my job," he finally managed to say. "At – at –" and at this point he recommenced his sobbing. Moriarty took in his work uniform that was clearly from Dunkin' Donuts, and the gears in his cold mind began to turn. "Pity that Sherlock had it out for you," he said casually. The boy shut up instantly, turning his red-rimmed stare on Moriarty. His gaze was surprisingly intense.

"Who?" he asked, taking the bait.

Moriarty bit back a smile. "Oh, Sherlock Holmes, the manager at the McDonalds. He's hated Dunkin' Donuts ever since it opened. He's been plotting to shut it down for months." It was technically sort of true.

"Why?" asked the boy incredulously.

"I have no idea." Moriarty shrugged. "Some people are just hateful and generally terrible."

Darkness passed over the boy as his innocent face transformed into one that was hardened and angry. "He'll pay for this," he said.

"That would be good," agreed Moriarty.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes paced around the kitchens of the McDonalds, which was no easy feat. There wasn't a lot of extra space back there. It was 11:42 AM, and John still had not returned for his promised hamburger. Sherlock had been sure he would come in early, before he went to work, but he hadn't shown. Doubts flooded his mind. Did John not care anymore? Had he decided it wasn't worth the trouble to come back? Had Molly scared him away? He would have to talk to Molly about being intimidating to customers. He threw his hands up in despair, elbowing a young woman he believed was a fry cook in the side of the face and causing her to stop short, which caused another employee to crash into her and drop the stack of pies he'd been carrying. He chided them in annoyance. Why was everyone always getting in the way?

Just then, he looked up as the door of the store swung open. John entered, wearing a knitted sweater instead of the sweatshirt from the previous night. Sherlock thought it suited him better; in any case, he looked more comfortable in it. John approached the counter and Sherlock heard him ask, "Um, can I get a hamburger? I was in here last night, but you were out or something, so…"

Sherlock burst into view and the man working the cash register stepped aside reflexively to avoid being plowed into. A look of recognition dawned in John's eyes as he acknowledged Sherlock's presence. "Hi," he said.

"Hello," said Sherlock, a little breathlessly. "Let me just get you a Big Mac."

"Okay…" said John. Once Sherlock returned with the sandwich wrapped in a paper bag, John asked, "Sherlock… were you waiting for me?"

"Nope," said Sherlock. "Not even a little bit."

"Okay," said John. "If you say so. Hey… I know you might be busy… but do you want to sit down with me for a minute?"

"Yeah, whatever," agreed Sherlock. "Compared with all of the other absurdities that have happened in this restaurant, me sitting down on the job probably won't cause much of a stir."

They slid into a booth towards the back of the seating area. "You lost your job," Sherlock observed. "Yeah," said John. "I did." He took a bite of the sandwich and dropped it back onto the table in shock as he began to chew. "Oh my gosh," he said, after he finished the bite. "That is an amazing sandwich. What do you put in there?"

"Oh, you know," said Sherlock, gesturing vaguely. "Salt, MSG, probably some beef."

"It's great," said John.

Sherlock smiled. Now that John was out of a job, he wondered if he could convince him to work at his store. He didn't really know in what capacity, he just liked him. Which was unusual, because he typically didn't like anyone, especially people that seemed to find him tolerable.

John looked up at the man sitting in front of him. He was kind of an odd person, he reflected, but he seemed like a decent human being. John didn't have a ton of friends; mostly he hung out at Harry's during his free time and tried to pretend they liked each other, or wrote stories on his own. He wondered if they could be friends, him and Sherlock.

Little did the pair know, as they speculated on the future of their acquaintanceship, that their lives were about to take a dark, unfortunate turn towards evil and unhappiness.

**A/N: Bit not good.**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: I keep telling the person I'm writing this fic with to write an author's note at the beginning of one of his chapters. I told him it would make him seem more personable. But he hasn't. So it's me again! Ta da. Hope you enjoy the chapter. ~Basil**

Casper sat in a dark room. His bedroom. At his mother's house, where he had lived all his life. He sobbed quietly, playing back - over and over again - his short, spectacular career at the Dunkin Donuts at 225 Baker Street. The interview, landing the job, the walk to work, the food discounts, putting on the polyester uniform for the first time...

Ah, the uniform... Casper always felt like a real American man when he put on his uniform. He was serving his country - or at least its citizens, quite literally. Sure, he wasn't putting his life in danger, nor protecting anyone. And, the food he served was perhaps a bit high in calories and somewhat low in nutritional value. But history was replete with stories of the reliable, solid kitchen-man; the guy who slogged the hash so the men and women on the front lines could be fed. Casper always felt a little taller, a little less pale, when in uniform; especially with the paper hat cocked jauntily on his head... he had even created a Dunkin Donuts solute (well, he had adapted it from that used by the future special forces in a 1970s sci-fi film involving mutant dolphins that Casper had watched 72 times)...

The side door slammed closed; Casper's mother was home from her job at the pefume counter of a high-end retail store. Soon the sickly-sweet, half-nauseating smell that clung to his mom after a long day spraying perfume samples would float through the house, eventually reaching Casper's room. Casper snapped back to reality, and a small choke-sob passed his thin lips. In the dark he could swear he saw Sherlock's face, just beyond his sight. Casper suddenly realized that his time in the kitchen was over - he now WAS the man on the front lines; the man of action; the Abercrombie guy. And Sherlock... well, Sherlock was going to taste the bitter revenge of someone who was no longer willing to sit idly by while Baker Street was pummeled by the class bully. "Shaken, not stirred" Casper muttered to himself semi-audibly, over and over.

Casper stood up in the darkness (bumping his knee on an unseen piece of funiture). He knew what he needed to do. But how? How? Who would assist Casper in his cold, dark, lonely quest for vengeance? By the time Casper had found the door in the darkness and opened it to suddenly blinding light, dabbing the tears from his face, he knew that his destination was Baker Street. Hopefully Moriarty's would be open.

**A/N: Thanks so much for reading! And I always appreciate reviews, regardless of whether they contain positive or constructive feedback.**


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